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Tuesday, September 24, 2013

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

When the Frost is on the Pumpkin

James Whitcomb Riley was never married and never had children, was an indifferent student who would
never have a good word for a teacher, a drunk, and a wildly successful writer
of sentimental poetry for children.

My mother read me his poems when I was a child; I remember the spooky
ones best:

Little
Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,

An' wash the
cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,

An' shoo the
chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,

An' make the
fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;

An' all us
other children, when the supper-things is done,

We set
around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun

A-list'nin'
to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,

An' the
Gobble-uns 'at gits you

Ef you

Don't

Watch

Out!

His poems lent themselves to impassioned readings, and that
was how Riley lived for years; he made a fortune off travelling around reading
his poetry.Hugely popular in his time,
he’s now regarded as a minor poet, more noted for his effect on American
culture and reflection of American history than for his work itself.